


Dreams are just the shackles of memory and emotion on the human being

by storiewriter



Series: Dreams are the shackles of memory [1]
Category: Gintama
Genre: Gen, spoilers through episode 305
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 07:39:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5860066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiewriter/pseuds/storiewriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gintoki doesn't dream often, and when he does it's usually vague. When it's not that, it's a memory, suffocating, like being stuffed in a cage with no way to turn.</p><p>Except this time, it's not quite any of those things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams are just the shackles of memory and emotion on the human being

**Author's Note:**

> First Gintama fic!

Gintoki didn’t dream often. When he did, it was usually dark, red, more impressions than solid ideas, although those did sometimes form: the detailed notches in the finger bones of the skeletons trying to pull him under; the reflection of himself, younger, less trusting, in the eyes of the corpse whose sword he was looting; wildflowers blooming, bright, then suddenly wilting under a literal rain of blood and viscera. But they were hyper-focused spots of clear vision where everything else was faded, fuzzy. He was thankful for that on the nights that he did dream, because while he was used to the blood and the guts and the shit of the battlefield, he didn’t exactly want to wallow in it for however many hours of sleep he managed to drag from drinking or (rarely) working.

But when he dreamed, and when it wasn’t what it usually was, he wasn’t dreaming as much as reliving, as fearing. Knowing he was, but unable to wake. Trapped.

“ _Will your students choose to die in vain with you, or will they choose to live on, even if they have to kill their teacher with their own hands?_ ”

Hard earth underfoot. The hilt, warm, his right hand, not sweaty but only because sweaty hands meant bad grip meant likelier chance of death and they had to, they had a mission to save him, to save Shōyo-sensei, so they had to live—his heart in his chest, fast, because beyond that idiot Takasugi and that dumbass Zura, on the ground, pinned, because beyond them was Shōyo-sensei, alive, back turned to them, and Gin couldn’t tell if he looked any older but he’d guess not because Shōyo-sensei was invincible, even to age—the air, rough, dry, heavy with dust and probably blood that he didn’t notice so close to battle—the men around, beside, behind him, their shakujō pointed at him, warm and imposing and threatening and it would take two, maybe three vicious strikes and swings to blow them away but it would take less time for Zura and Takasugi and Shōyo-sensei to die, so he doesn’t.

 _This is a dream_ , he thinks, as the leader of the Tendōshuu says, “ _It’s the perfect execution for an educator like you, don’t you think?_ ”

 _This is a dream_ , he thinks, even as his body steps forward without his willing it, as he stares at Shōyo-sensei’s back, the way it lifts and rises in life as it doesn’t and can’t in death, not when his head’s been chopped off, even Shōyo-sensei can’t function if his brain’s not attached to tell his body when to eat and when to breathe and when to shit.

“ _Pick whichever you like, your teacher or your friends,_ ” but he already knows what he will do because he loves Shōyo-sensei but it’s because he loves him that he cannot, cannot let Takasugi and Zura die.

Another step. Another. He hates himself, hates himself to the core of his being for moving forward, for moving towards Shōyo-sensei with a naked blade and the intention to kill him in his heart. Gintoki does not fight the dream, though; he knows that this was the best outcome, the only outcome.

He still hates himself for being weak.

Slight breeze in his hair, tugging at the hems of his sleeves, at the stray strands of Shōyo-sensei’s hair. He passes Zura, Takasugi, comes ever-closer, know the end is near. Feels the dust against his cheek, the dirt between his toes from where it worked past the weave of his tabi, _this is a dream but it happened_ , he thinks.

“ _Stop—Gintoki—please!_ ” Takasugi says behind him, voice raw, high, and he’d only heard that voice once before, when Shōyo-sensei had been taken away and Gin had been left behind to wallow in his own powerlessness. But he continues on, despite Takasugi’s pleas. Zura is quiet. Zura, Gintoki thinks, knows. Understands.

Well, considering what Zura became, what Takasugi became, Gintoki already knows who understood and accepted and who didn’t and was driven mad by it. By him.

Shifting metal rings, the lifting of a shakujō, his sensei, quiet. Stopping. He shifts the grip on the hilt, raises the katana. Waits.

Quietly, so that only Gintoki and his two guards can hear, Shōyo-sensei says, “Thank you.”

Gintoki knew it was coming. But he feels his mouth drop still, his eyes tense, then relax, and begin to water, just a little. He smiles, and he knows that he only does because sensei deserves, if nothing else, to be sent off with something good.

He pulls the katana blade over to his left side and begins to swing, but—unlike before, unlike every iteration of this nightmare—Shōyo-sensei is no longer before his blade. Instead—Kagura, Shinpachi, in white and quiet, shoulder-to-shoulder, trembling, they are there before his blade and Gintoki screams out with every fiber of his being to stop, stop, this is not how it should be this is _never_ how it will be dammit, he will never allow himself to kill them for his own sake he—

It is a dream, though. It is a dream, a perversion of a memory, and Gin has no control. He is trapped. He is trapped inside himself, left to watch as the blade descends and blood sprays with the singing of metal through air, through flesh and bone and not hair because Kagura’s is up, Shinpachi’s is too short, and their heads tumble to the ground to stare up at him, wide and dead-eyed and he sees himself, crying, in the reflection of Kagura’s blue irises and Shinpachi’s glasses, but he is no longer Shiroyasha, he is _him_ , he is crying and they are dead and the sword falls from his grasp and he falls to his knees, hands shaking, and—

The alarm rang. He woke, throat sore, and slammed his hand so hard into the alarm clock that it flew to the other side of the room and embedded itself into the wall, springs hanging down, bouncing.

“Shut up!” He said, the way he usually did but different, but different because he kept seeing their blood on his hands. “It’s too early for this shit,” but it came out too quiet, and he had to fist his fingers in his sleep pants to keep them from shaking.

The door slid open in a rattle and a thud. “Mmm, Gin-chan,” Kagura said, rubbing at her eyes, hair going everywhere. “Shut up, it’s too early.”

“That’s what I just said.” He shifted, fisting his fingers in the material of his blanket before looking up at her. He can’t stop himself from cataloguing her inju— _there are no injuries, this is not a dream_ —and staring at her neck _—of course it’s still attached, that was a dream, this is reality—_ and he lets out a disgusted groan because fuck if he’s going to let this kid know what’s going on inside his head.

“No, idiot perm-head,” She grumbled, and he saw her cross her arms out of his periphery. He couldn’t look. Not now, not when his dream was being superimposed over her. “You were yelling before the dumb alarm went off. It woke me up.”

He swallowed. He never yelled. Gasped, started, woke—never yelled. “You sure it wasn’t some drunk out in the street? I didn’t hear me yelling.”

Kagura scowled at him, and she’d be more terrifying if she weren’t so damn small, so damn young. “Aaah? You deaf? Gin-chan, are you finally turning old enough for your hair?”

“It’s silver!” He said, crossing his own arms and legs. His hands were still shaking. He yelled? Experience said _never_ , his rasping throat said _maybe_. “Not white!”

“It’s white!” Kagura said, and she had a little malicious grin on her face now. “You’re getting too old to be a Jump protagonist! This is it, this is the end of Gintama!”

“Shut up! You know we don’t age, I’ll never be too old to be a Jump protagonist! Remember the Ryugujo arc? I was still the protagonist then, idiot!”

“Nuh-uh, we girls had to do all the work!” Kagura bent over, and her hair fell forward, covering the sides of her neck, and Gintoki caught himself thinking that like this it would be shorn, that now it would be like Shōyo-sensei’s and he found himself never, ever wanting to see her cut hair.  

He swallowed, pushed back an answer after a pause a heartbeat too long. “Zura and I still had to save your asses! When we were _all_ old, I was still more useful than the lot of you!” Something else, anything else. Not blades or hair or anything, not blood, not—

“Gin-san? Kagura-chan? Are you both ready? We have a job this morning, remember?” Ah, bless Shinpachi, they had a job, if they had a job he could stop thinking about things that didn’t matter because _they weren’t going to happen_.

“Shinpachi doesn’t count on our side! He’s always useless!” Kagura proclaimed, turning up her nose and putting her fists on her hips. “Plus, you had help, remember? You only became useful when you weren’t so old anymore!”

“Who are you calling useless?” Shinpachi yelled, and he became slightly louder when he pulled the second door open. “I was the only one who didn’t get old! You all were dumb enough to get hit with the gas!”

“Maa, there’s not much difference between young glasses and old glasses,” Gin said, waving a hand in front of his face. He could feel the fingers trembling, but when he looked it wasn’t even noticeable. It would be fine. It had to be fine. “It wouldn’t be an interesting choice stylistically.”

“Would you stop that! I’m not a pair of glasses, I’m a human being wearing a pair of glasses!” Shinpachi yelled, pointing his finger at them, eyes narrowed, flickering between the two of them.

“Shut up up there!” The old hag howled from the doorway, and he imagined her in her pajamas, a cigarette between her fingers, no makeup. It was better than the alternative. “Some of us went to sleep an hour ago!”

“You shut up! You don’t need beauty sleep when you’re already so ugly!” Gin yelled, digging his fingers back into his sides. This was fine. This was normal. This was normal and memory-dreams stayed on track and he didn’t scream during nightmares. He also didn’t feel on the verge of tears because what Shōnen Jump protagonist cried after a nightmare? “This is a time when normal people are up already!”

“Says the man who was asleep until eleven yesterday morning!” Shinpachi said, but Gin couldn’t look at him without seeing his own crying face in Shinpachi’s glasses, so he didn’t, he just looked at the space between their heads. There was another, awkward beat.

“Mmhmm.” Kagura nodded twice. Ah, usually she was faster in switching between subjects. Well, it was only 6:30, he could allow her _some_ slack. “No wonder he has white hair!”

“How does that even make _sense_?” Gintoki said, and then he leaned back, stared at the ceiling. His eyes weren’t burning, not at all. “Out! I need to get dressed! We have a job to do! Unlike some people who stay up late partying and wake up even later!”

“What did you say?” Otose howled from the door.

“He said nothing!” Shinpachi said, a wide-eyed panic to his voice. He turned, quickly, patted Kagura on the shoulder. Gin winced and waited for Shinpachi to go flying. “C’mon, Kagura-chan, it’s not appropriate for girls to watch guys undress anyways.”

“Pfft, like I’d want to see Gin-chan’s gross old-man body anyways!” She huffed and twirled on the ball of one foot. She tucked her hands behind her back—they were more like one giant fist, and Gin thought that maybe she was learning to restrain herself. Must have been hard; her knuckles were white, and when she spoke, her voice was strained. “Don’t let your aching joints make you take forever!”

“I’m not old!” Gin said, and he threw his pillow at the both of them for good measure. He aimed for their heads, faltered, and released it too late, shifted the aim of it, and it flew between their bodies and hit the back of the couch instead. They laughed, high and breathy, and shut the door.

It was quiet. Just Gin, a broken clock in the wall, and his own thoughts. His hands shook. He brought them up to his face, took in a deep breath, and let out a shaky sigh. He did not close his eyes.

“Never,” he mumbled to himself. “Never.”

He had made that choice once. He would not do it again—not to them. Not ever to them.

After a few more moments, he pushed himself up to his feet, walked over to the closet, and opened it. There were rows of black and red, of white and blue. Slowly, he pulled one set of each—kimono, pants and shirt—from the closet.

This was normal. This was good.

 

(but still, he would dream about their blood on his hands later, when they returned from Yoshiwara hurt and scared and weak but alive, when they came back from the Shogun’s palace after near-death but no physical harm, whenever shit happened and they were put in harm’s way and it was his fault, all his fault—

He never stopped screaming at the end of those dreams

Even though he knew it was coming)


End file.
